Bend - Bromberg K.. Страница 121

“Are you sure?”

I groan in response, his finger cupping, stroking. My pussy so wet I am shaking for him.

“Answer me. I need to hear it.” His voice is rough. Control shaken. Good.

I open my eyes. Reestablish contact. Let him see the resolution there. “Yes. Please. Now.”

He leans forward, braces himself above me on the bed, his face a foot from mine, my vision filled with the beautiful look of Brett, and shifts his hips down slightly and thrusts.

Mother of—I whimper, reach up and grip his shoulders, pull him closer as my mouth opens in silent exclamation. It has been too long. I can’t go without it for this long ever again. On second thought, maybe the reason this feels this incredible is because I have been without. But either way, the stretch of my muscles around his cock … the heat inside me as he slowly thrusts, in and out, back and forth, my silent cries turning a little louder, becoming words, moans, begs, pleas. “Don’t ever stop … Brett—I … “

He gives it to me slow. Letting me adjust before his speed picks up, thrusts roughening right at the moment when I am ready for it. I wrap my legs around his waist. Dig my heels into the lickable meat of his ass. Squeeze the heat of his skin with my legs, stare up into his face as he buries his cock in repeated succession, the quickened pace containing an edge of desperation, of wild inhibition.

“Right there, I’m about to …”

I bellow, the howl of a woman overtaken, and he groans at the sound, lowers his face to my neck, inhales my scent as my voice breaks. I lose all focus, all ability to understand anything but that he hasn’t stopped, hasn’t slowed, is carrying me on this high which is not, will not stop, until it takes ahold of my soul and makes me his own.

He pulls me back to life, gripping my face with both hands, lowering his face to mine, and diving into my mouth. Kissing me strong. Ragged breaths between deep kisses, his cock continues its steady thrust, my hands greedy against his chest, scraping across the ridges of his side, scratching lines of need into his back. Then he breaks the kiss, his hands tightening a little on my face, our eyes holding until a groan drags from his throat, his eyes closing, head dropping, thrusts slowing and deepening, until he is buried and still inside of me. His hands drop my face, my name rolls off his lips as he eases down, his body flush to mine, and it feels, in that moment, like we are fused—souls, bodies, and mind—completely together.

Chapter 8

My cell is ringing. I hear the familiar tune, the beats dragging me awake, my hand fumbling over the empty bedside table. I wake more, hanging half off the bed as my fingers trip over carpet until they encounter my purse. I answer it a second short of too late. “Hello?”

“You slut!” The screech of Mitzi’s voice is way too loud, and I pull the phone away from my ear. Blink in the darkness. Try to figure out where I am. One bed, not two. Room twice as big as the one I spent last night in. Movement comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see well over six feet of dark gorgeousness watching me, on his side, the dawn light contrasting with the intense look that he rocks so well. ‘Good morning,’ he mouths, his hand reaching out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me flat on my back. He is on one side, head propped up on one hand, eyes on my face.

“What do you want?” I mumble into the phone.

“I just got back to the room. I know your prude ass can’t be shacking up with that delicious piece of man you left with last night.”

“I can’t talk right now.”

“You know wheels are going up in three hours.”

“Then you should get some more beauty rest.”

A snort. The beginning of some lecture. I hang up the phone, lock it and toss it onto the floor in the direction of my purse, before rolling toward Brett and closing my eyes. I try to memorize the look of him in morning shadows. It’s a good look. Way too good of a look. “I’ve got to go back to my room.”

“No you don’t.” He bends over, pressing a kiss on my collarbone. Pulling at the sheet, he reveals a breast. He exhales, moves his mouth to that spot with soft kisses until I push him off. Cuddle into the crook of his shoulder. Rest my head on him when he lies back against the pillows.

“I have to go back to Georgia.”

“When?” The word vibrates through his chest, and I roll closer into him. Run my hand over his chest.

“One. Which means I need to pack, and shower …”

“… and eat breakfast.”

I look up at him. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at ordering room service.”

“I’ve been told that I’m excellent at eating it.”

We eat on the bed like kids, cross-legged, cartoons on the TV, trays on the crumpled sheets before us. I lean over, swig a generous swallow of mimosa from the flute and then return it to the bedside table. “So … Mister …” I tilt my head at him. “I don’t know your last name.”

He scowls. Brings a forkful of omelet to his mouth and chews thoroughly before swallowing, the clench of his jaw as he chews drawing my attention to the strong curves of his face, the way dark stubble makes the green of his eyes pop. The gulp of his throat is somehow sexy. “Jacobs.”

“Jacobs. Why the Bahamas, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Isn’t that a question you should have asked me before you …”

I raise my eyebrows as he struggles for words. “Before I what?”

He meets my playful gaze. “Trusted me with your body.”

I shrug. “Jena has your business card. She makes a practice of digging into every aspect of my life. I’m sure she has your blood type and latest draft of your resume by this point. She hasn’t called to warn me of anything, so I think my body is safe in your hands.”

When his eyes darken, they become hunter green. A heart-stopping change. Intensity looks incredible on this man. “I’m here for pleasure. I enjoy the fishing.”

My eyes pick up on his tan, the flex of his forearms as he reaches forward and snags a piece of toast. I suddenly want to see him. On the deck of a boat, wearing only swim trunks. The flex of his muscles as he battles a fish. The break of his smile when he catches a prize. I’ve never seen him during the day. When the sun reflects in those eyes. I look down, scoop up a spoonful of grits, and bring them to my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Look back to find him watching me.

“Have you caught anything this trip?”

His mouth twitches. “Been too busy with a certain blonde to get any time in.”

“Ahhh … sure. Blame your bad luck on me.” I shoot him a look that he finds humorous, his mouth splitting into an easy grin.

I am digging out grapes from the fruit bowl when he speaks. “Stay a few more days with me.”

I pause my quest for red ones. “I can’t. I have work tomorrow.” As I speak the words I realize how out of character they are for me. Blaming work. Not the fact that staying here, with a stranger, is foolhardy enough to say no. I want to stay. The warm buzz, the state of euphoria that seems to accompany every moment in this man’s presence … it is a high I haven’t experienced in a long time. New love. Love that—at previous interactions—skipped along on its merry way after a few weeks. My last experience with this heady, butterflies in my tummy, elation in my heart feeling was … high school? Almost twenty years ago, when I had fresh, unwounded eyes. Before I realized the selfishness and deceit that we, as adults, hold. The ugly truths of life that pull apart love and make relationships obligation centers that carry us from year to year, life transition to life transition.

“What do you do?”

His question brings me back. I pop an elusive red grape in my mouth before answering. “I’m a financial advisor. I work at a small bank in a town called Macon.”

“Why Macon?”